Growing Pains
In the world of siblings, little and bigger are all relative
Amongst other developments, my little brother’s voice has begun to crack.
I think the correct phrasing is to say the voice is starting to break, but more often than he’d like, his voice is cracking. I started noticing it a couple of months ago, but it has become more apparent in recent days. His tone as of late is that of a yeller, rage quitting over a good sniper shot placed against him in whatever the newest Call of Duty game is. I recently had to buy him some new Nike shorts, identical to the ones worn by all the cool kids at the mall; and now, especially as the weather has begun to heat up, I think an air purifier is next on the shopping list. He no longer says goodbye when I head off to work, not because he despises me, but rather because he’s discovered he can stay past 10:00 PM (well into 3:00 AM, apparently) to watch Twitch streams and episodes of The Rookie on Hulu. He asked me at dinner a couple of nights ago what gangs claim our hometown and even had the gall to ask if I had vaped before. Being the good brother that I am, I reminded him that I would be of no support if he went down either path. Stepping back and taking in these developments, I am constantly reminded that we both are becoming obvious victims of the passage of time and age.
I had already clocked in ten years when my brother was born. I think when my mom broke the news that she was pregnant, I cried and screamed out of disbelief. Before you judge, who wouldn’t shed tears when they receive such information after years of being singularly pampered and adored? Before the gender was even known, I had reconciled the thought of having a sibling by placing my hopes in a younger sister. Perhaps we’d end up like Dora and Diego. Or, we’d discover our talents soon enough and become the next Carpenters! Worst-case scenario, we could have become the first brother-sister crime duo to claim countrywide notoriety — like a real-life Thelma and Louise, but Lionel instead.
So when I learned I was getting a brother, man-oh-man, that was a hard pill to swallow.
To ten-year-old me, a younger brother was a rival. A nemesis, a competitor, a being I wanted to relegate to second place. A brother had the potential to steal my clothes and, perhaps, worst of all, wear them better than I had ten years prior. A sibling of the same gender always has the potential to outshine you in every manner. Such a defeat is worse when the winner is that much younger than you. They’re the newest thing on the block, they get all the attention, and, most disrespectfully, they look just like you. Haven’t you people seen Malcolm in the Middle? At least to compensate for these feelings of inferiority, my parents let me name the thing.
Luckily, Victor and I have turned out to be quite different. Thank goodness he has proven to be chronically horrific at dressing himself.1 Victor has his own pair of eyeglasses, albeit not as progressed as mine were when I was his age. He enjoys gaming, but he’s a PlayStation kid, whereas I grew up on Nintendo. His grades could certainly use some work — perhaps a whole summer’s worth of work if you asked his teachers. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I think I’m still the neighborhood’s favorite Ton creation, to say things mildly. For better and sometimes for worse, we have turned out to be complete opposites.
Regardless, I love my brother; I really do. What a turn of events, I know. I will generally be the first to tell you how great Victor can be most days, and most of the time, at least before his voice started to change, Victor could echo the same sentiments for me. “You’re my favorite brother” was always his go-to line, as if I had buried another sibling between when he was born and when he started to notice the world around him. I’ll obviously never not love my own brother, but some days, particularly most of the ones that have made up this year, he has turned unconditional love into quite the challenge.
In addition to the changing sounds and odors associated with children ages 11 through 15, Victor has begun to defy me. Not “defy” in the sense of the Middle Ages, where such a charge would lead to execution or war, but more so like using my credit card without asking me, or refusing to turn off his “Do Not Disturb” as I have instructed him to.2 My favorite act of early teen defiance? Telling me he’ll be ready to get picked up from his mall hangout at 6:00 PM, but then making me wait at the food court until 7:30. There’s no good food at this mall either, especially not at that time. He’s begun writing and reciting his own rap songs, which truly are the product of a C-grade English student.3 Victor has expunged “please” from his entire vocabulary in what is perhaps his cardinal sin. It must have been a new year’s resolution or something.
Putting more thought into it, however, changes are not exclusive to my younger brother. Years ago, 7:15 AM saw the two Tons cracking jokes over a bowl of cereal, right before heading off to our respective campuses. Now, 7:15 AM sees me tying a necktie and checking my briefcase while the younger one asks our mother for ten additional minutes in slumber. Quite the change in programming if you ask me. As Victor begins experimenting with hair gel, I have come to realize that my hair loss journey will begin at the spiral, ironically, the place where hair seems to have formed in the first place. His Amazon cart is home to dozens of unrealized sneakers. Mine has a couple of penny loafers and a new briefcase, all of which look like the ones I already have, just in different colors. He’ll still have a good number of friends to make, and I’m more than happy with the ones I’ve cut down to. Amongst other developments, it appears we’re both aging at an uncomfortable rate.
As obviously stupid as it may sound, Victor and I will always be ten years apart. In this year and the ones to follow, I will see how he charts a path I have already taken while he observes a life he’ll likely reject. He’ll make more mistakes, accomplish wonderful things, and learn many new lessons that I hope could come sooner rather than later. The same, whether I want to believe it or not, will likely come by way also. As the Earth continues to spin, two of its citizens will keep on living.
I find solace in knowing he has me, and I have him. We’ll never age out of buying boba milk, nor will I ever completely fail at making the little rascal bust into a hardy laugh. And, although my little brother may not be so little anymore, I find great happiness in knowing that I’ll always have Victor to call my own — my one and only sibling, the only one I ever really needed.4 Once his voice settles in, that voice which will never as quite be as deep as mine, I hope it’ll stay that way for the rest of my life.
For a while, he was quite the fan of jorts.
“But it’s his phone!” Yeah, well, it may become the kidnapper’s phone if he doesn’t turn that shit off during an unideal situation.
My favorite verse saw him rhyme “shit” with “lick.” Interpret that how you will.
Sisters are much more difficult to handle, especially at this age. Just ask my cousin.